


Distractions

by klose



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Clavicles, Clothing Kink, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klose/pseuds/klose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a shared lunch in Bruce's Wayne Enterprises office, Dick finds himself distracted by Bruce's state of (un)dress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distractions

**Author's Note:**

> Anon at Tumblr kindly prompted Bruce/Dick + clavicles, and I have attempted to deliver. This panel from Batman #17 below (and Bruce's outfit in it) is relevant. Because Greg Capullo's Bruce is delicious (as is his [Dick Grayson](http://epigenetics.tumblr.com/post/36253185283)!):
> 
>  

* * *

Bruce’s shirt is unbuttoned. Or at least, the top button has come undone, revealing a sliver of pale skin. This shouldn’t be a problem — Dick has seen the man in various states of undress, after all. Naked, even. A lot. It’s sort of a benefit of being… whatever they are. Boyfriend and boyfriend? Romantic partners?  _Together_? Dick isn’t sure, exactly, but he likes the sound of all of those terms.  
  
He also really, really can’t take his eyes off Bruce’s chest. Or just the small part of it that is exposed between the crumpled V made by the artfully dishevelled fabric, teasing him with a glimpse of bare skin.   
  
“Dick?”   
  
Dick blinks to find Bruce raising an eyebrow at him questioningly. “I, uh,” he says, and stalls for time by biting into his sandwich. He can feel Bruce staring, however, intent enough that the back of his neck prickles. Dick swallows, hard, barely tasting the ham and cheese.   
  
“I was just thinking you should wear that colour more often,” he says finally.   
  
The eyebrow stays arched. “Grey?  
  
Dick shifts to take in the rest of Bruce’s outfit — a long-sleeved slate-grey shirt matched to a lighter ash-coloured jacket and trousers. No tie. All made of the finest wool and immaculately tailored, of course, fit to show off the chiseled lines of Bruce’s handsome face, and the intensity of his blue eyes. The dark colours form a perfect contrast against the pale peach of Bruce’s skin and the raven-black of his hair.  
  
“Mmm. Yeah.” Dick picks up his water and takes a long sip. “Grey.”  
  
His eyes drift back down to Bruce’s throat, and below. He can make out the twin jut of bones that are otherwise usually covered by Bruce’s shirts, and the tantalising dip between them. Dick thinks about the countless time he’s laved his tongue over that hollow, licking up the beads of salty sweat that collected there because those occasions had always, inevitably, turned a little heated.   
  
In the cool, air-conditioned comfort of Bruce’s office at Wayne Enterprises, Bruce would likely not taste of sweat — but maybe of mint soap or spicy aftershave. With a lingering hint of kevlar. He’d be warm, though. The man’s practically a walking furnace. It’s a fact Dick had learned in his early years as Robin, when Bruce had been more free with his hugs, and he’s been delighted to rediscover it in more recent times.  
  
Bruce would be warm, a hulking mass of muscle beneath him, and Dick just wants to climb him like a tree. Wrap his arms around the man and steal as many kisses as he can get away with.   
  
“You’re staring.”   
  
Dick fiddles with a stray piece of lettuce. “I guess I’m a little distracted.”  
  
Bruce puts his sandwich down. “Anything I can help with?”   
  
His mouth thins into a slight frown of concern, and it’s an adorable look on him. Enough to make Dick grin, set his own food back on the desk between them, and stand up.   
  
“Maybe.” He holds his hand out to Bruce, who takes it after only the briefest hesitation.   
  
“See,” Dick starts, leading them both over to the corner enclave in Bruce’s office. There’s a set-up of armchairs and a couch surrounding a coffee table, presumably for casual meetings.   
  
“I know you’re playing the bored socialite company figurehead angle, but—” he gently pushes Bruce to lie down on his back on the plush leather couch, and seeing the man go along with it so willingly, with an intrigued almost-smile, makes Dick shiver with the pleasure of it — “I’m pretty sure Alfred has specific rules about how a gentleman wears a button-down shirt.”  
  
As Dick joins Bruce on the couch, shifting to straddle him, the older man hooks his thumbs over Dick’s hips, splaying his palms over Dick’s ass. There’s a playful sort of twinkle on his eyes as he looks up at Dick, and that Dick is allowed any of this — to  _see_  Bruce letting him in, to be the one evoking that smile, to be fooling around with him in his damn penthouse office, of all places — it’s the best thing ever. Bruce’s grey suit shouldn’t look so good crumpled under Dick’s dark blue jeans; the exquisite matte weave should clash with his own cotton t-shirt, really, but it’s perfect and Dick doesn’t even care if he’s got a daffy grin on just from contemplating it.  
  
“Are you giving me a fashion lecture, Dick Grayson?” Bruce asks, his tone low and amused.   
  
Dick leans down for a quick peck before answering. “I said Alfred had specific rules. I never said anything about  _following_  them.”   
  
Baring his teeth in a wolfish smile, he traces the hard line of Bruce’s jaw, down his Adam’s apple to the openings of the dark grey shirt. It takes only a quick moment to pop a few more buttons, and push the fabric aside so that he can fully appreciate the broad expanse of skin and bone and muscle between Bruce’s shoulders. The dual lines of his clavicles cut through the curves of his neck and shoulders; a sharp boundary below which a dusting of scars and dark hair cover Bruce’s chest.   
  
Dick licks his way across it, adding a nip when he feels Bruce sigh against him, the other man’s large hands squeezing down on his rear. Bruce tastes better than he remembered, clean and warm with a touch of leather. Each scar receives a kiss, yet another tribute from Dick to Bruce’s body. His teeth graze over the jutting strut of his collarbone, contemplating where best to sink in and leave his mark. Dick never does this over the collar line — Bruce wouldn’t appreciate it, even if it would be completely compatible with Brucie Wayne’s playboy image — but he feels like pushing the man a little today. He bites down at the border between clavicle and sternum, sucks attentively at the delicate skin there.  
  
When that makes Bruce inhale a short, quick breath, and buck the tiniest bit, Dick just smirks and works his mouth harder, drawing away only when he’s confident of having left a bright, crimson bruise. But he hardly has time to admire the mark he’s left when Bruce pulls him back in and up, devouring him in a kiss so rough that their heads and teeth knock together.   
  
“Still distracted?” Bruce asks, when he finally lets Dick up for air. Huffs, really, almost raspy, and the satisfaction of having him just as affected by their intimacy sends a flash of answering heat racing to Dick’s gut.   
  
“Maybe,” Dick laughs, kissing the crinkles around his eyes — before jerking, with a strangled noise, when one of Bruce’s hands sneaks into the back of his pants.  
  
Bruce hums into Dick’s neck, annoyingly nonchalant even as Dick squirms on top of him. Bruce’s fingers are rough and surprisingly cold on his naked skin, the cuffs of his shirt and jacket chafing ever so slightly, but Dick just feels insanely  _hot_. Pressed as close as they are, Bruce  _has_  to feel the way his heart’s pounding. “Good. I might have a way to help you that, chum.”  
  
Dick can only gasp as Bruce thrusts up, smashing their hips together. He tries to recover with a flirty quip — “My hero,” — except it comes out more like an embarrassingly breathy whimper because, god, he can  _feel_  Bruce’s arousal twitching against his thigh even through the layers of his denim jeans and Bruce’s pants.   
  
But it doesn’t matter when Bruce makes an approving  _growling_  noise from deep in his chest, and frees an arm and a leg to wrap around Dick, pressing their bodies tighter together. The black leather squeaks as they shift around, but they’re both hot and hard and it doesn’t even matter that one o’ clock in the afternoon in Bruce’s sprawling office is hardly the time or place, that Bruce’s secretary could walk in on them at any moment —   
  
Absolutely none of it matters as Bruce proceeds to make good on his word, and Dick doesn’t so much forget about Bruce’s clavicles as remember just how captivating the rest of Bruce’s body is, too.

 


End file.
